Orphan Train

history we learn about the pilgrims in Plymouth Plantation
     in 1621 and the food they ate, wild turkeys and corn and five deer brought to the
     feast by the Indians. We talk about family traditions, but like the Byrnes, the Grotes
     don’t take any notice of the holiday. When I mention it to Mr. Grote, he says, “What’s
     the big deal about a turkey? I can bag one of those any old day.” But he never does.
    Mr. Grote has become even more distant, up at the crack of dawn to go hunting, then
     skinning and smoking the meat at night. When he’s home, he yells at the children or
     avoids them. Sometimes he shakes the baby until it whimpers and stops crying. I don’t
     even know if he sleeps in the back bedroom anymore. Oftentimes I find him asleep on
     the couch in the living room, his form under a quilt like the exposed root of an old
     tree.
    I WAKE ONE N OVEMBER MORNING COATED IN A FINE COLD DUST . There must have been a storm in the night; snow piles in small drifts on the mattresses,
     having blown in through the cracks and crevices in the walls and roof. I sit up and
     look around. Three of the kids are in the room with me, huddled like sheep. I get
     up, shaking snow from my hair. I slept in my clothes from yesterday, but I don’t want
     Miss Larsen and the girls at school, Lucy in particular, to see me in the same clothes
     two days in a row (though other kids, I’ve noticed, have no shame about this at all).
     I pull a dress and my other sweater from my suitcase, which I keep open in a corner,
     and change quickly, pulling them over my head. None of my clothes are ever particularly
     clean, but I cling to these rituals nevertheless.
    It’s the promise of the warm schoolhouse, Miss Larsen’s friendly smile, and the distraction
     of other lives, other worlds on the pages of the books we read in class, that get
     me out the door. The walk to the corner is getting harder; with each snowfall I have
     to forge a new path. Mr. Grote tells me that when the heavy storms hit in a few weeks
     I might as well forget it.
    At school Miss Larsen takes me aside. She holds my hand and looks into my eyes. “Are
     things all right at home, Dorothy?”
    I nod.
    “If there’s anything you want to tell me—”
    “No, ma’am,” I say. “Everything is fine.”
    “You haven’t been handing in your homework.”
    There’s no time or place to read or do homework at the Grotes’, and after the sun
     goes down at five there’s no light, either. There are only two candle stubs in the
     house, and Mrs. Grote keeps one with her in the back room. But I don’t want Miss Larsen
     to feel sorry for me. I want to be treated like everyone else.
    “I’ll try harder,” I say.
    “You . . .” Her fingers flutter at her neck, then drop. “Is it difficult to keep clean?”
    I shrug, feeling the heat of shame. My neck. I’ll have to be more thorough.
    “Do you have running water?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    She bites her lip. “Well. Come and see me if you ever want to talk, you hear?”
    “I’m fine, Miss Larsen,” I tell her. “Everything is fine.”
    I AM ASLEEP ON A PILE OF BLANKETS, HAVING BEEN NUDGED OFF THE mattresses by a fitful child, when I feel a hand on my face. I open my eyes. Mr.
     Grote, bending over me, puts a finger to his lips, then motions for to me to come.
     Groggily I get up, wrapping a quilt around myself, and follow him to the living room.
     In the weak moonlight, filtered through clouds and the dirty windows, I see him sit
     on the gold sofa and pat the cushion beside him.
    I pull the quilt tighter. He pats the cushion again. I go over to him, but I don’t
     sit.
    “It’s cold tonight,” he says in a low voice. “I could use some company.”
    “You should go back there with her,” I say.
    “Don’t want to do that.”
    “I’m tired,” I tell him. “I’m going to bed.”
    He shakes his head. “You’re gonna stay here with me.”
    I feel a flutter in my stomach and turn to leave.
    He reaches out and grabs my arm. “I want you to stay, I said.”
    I look at him in the gloom. Mr. Grote has never frightened me before, but something
     in his voice is different, and I know I need to be careful. His mouth is curled up
     at the edges into a funny smile.
    He tugs the quilt. “We can warm each other up.”
    I yank it tighter around my shoulders and turn away again, and then I am falling.
     I hit my elbow on the hard floor and feel a sharp pain as I land heavily on it, my
     nose to the